


Highway to Hell

by Selenay



Series: The Demon and the Librarian [6]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Demon Clint Barton, Hell, Hell is a really nasty place, Librarian Phil Coulson, M/M, Mention of off-screen torture, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 17:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2819978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selenay/pseuds/Selenay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is back where he belongs. That should be a good thing, right? Phil's life can go back to a normal, demon free existence.</p>
<p>It's not that easy to let go of a demon. Not when that demon is Clint, and he didn't go back willingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Highway to Hell

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, here is the next part. In case the tags didn't give it away, Hell is a very not nice place, and I did not write the fluffy kind version of it, okay?
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my wonderful readers. And to the reader who guessed some of what is about to go down...just know that I whimpered a little when I read your really accurate comment a few months ago :-D

Phil stared at the scrap of paper on his desk. Over the last day, he'd taken it out of his pocket and looked at it more times than he could count, and he still hadn't decided what to do about it.

The paper was thick and creamy, but the edges were ragged, as though it had been torn from a corner of a much larger, important document. A contract, perhaps, because he could see the curlicues of what might have been some fancy calligraphy on one side. He didn't want to speculate too much on what kind of contract it might be.

In the middle of the paper, printed in ink that looked like dried blood, there was a name.

Natasha Romanov.

That was what he'd been debating with himself for the last day. The red-haired demon had given him a name of her own free will, and Phil was absolutely certain that it was one of her true names. There wouldn't have been any sense in giving him anything else.

If she had given him a true name, then she had to have a reason. The only one he could think of was that she wanted him to summon her. There was no other purpose to what she'd done that he could divine, and he was sure that he'd thought up and dismissed every other possible option.

What he hadn't figured out yet, was why she wanted him to summon her.

Everything he'd read about demons said that they would fight giving out their true names. They would resist in every way, at all times, because it gave the summoner so much power over them. With her name, he could call her specifically and bind her tight to his will, and she wouldn't be able to fight him. Even the small amounts of resistance, or wriggle room, that Clint had managed to maintain would be impossible for her when Phil had that name to use against her.

She'd done it anyway, and Phil was conflicted.

It was possible that she was setting up some kind of trap for him. That there was some rule in the demon summoning that he hadn't found yet, and trying to use her name would do something terrible to him.

Alternatively, she might have some way of saving Clint from whatever was going to happen to him, and she needed Phil's help. It seemed completely unlikely--she was a demon, after all--but somehow, Phil felt sure that was the right answer. It just made no sense.

Could demons actually experience the kind of affection and loyalty that would make one of them sacrifice this much power to a human?

Had he been wrong about Clint's capacity for feeling emotion?

Phil picked up the piece of paper again, holding it up to the lamp. The paper was too thick for a watermark to show through. He put it down on the desk and frowned down at it.

Such a tiny thing, causing so much confusion and doubt.

A knock at his door startled him, and he quickly swept the scrap up and shoved it into a pocket as Darcy's voice floated through.

"Are you decent?"

Phil bit down a smile, and opened the door. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Darcy grinned. "I don't know, boss. But you keep a spare suit in there, so it's not totally impossible that you might be indecent, and I'm going to stop that thought right there."

"Thank you." Phil tilted his head. "Did you need something?"

"Yup." Darcy pushed her glasses up her nose. "Thor's stuck on the subway somewhere. Something about a security thing on the tracks, which probably means a jumper, and ew. Steve's on the returns desk, but he's got a puppet thing in five and we're getting swamped. Can you help me out on circulation before I accidentally kill a patron?"

Phil glanced back at his office quickly, checking nothing was out of place, and nodded. "I can help."

"Thanks, boss, you're the best. I'll make your mocha an extra-large the next time I do a run."

Phil chuckled and followed her upstairs.

***

Long after midnight, Phil took a deep, settling breath and began chanting. The casting room hidden behind his office was filled with flickering candlelight, and his nose itched from the stink of incense and burning herbs. Pacing around the circle, throwing handfuls of red sand into braziers, felt almost familiar now. The words burned in the back of his throat and tried to stop his tongue, but Phil continued with the spell despite the resistance building in the room.

It hadn't been like this for Clint's summoning. That had almost felt easy. Phil didn't know anymore whether that was a good or bad thing.

The ritual he was using was almost exactly the same as he'd used for Clint. All the research he'd done said this was the best one to use; the most accurate, the one with the best chance of success. He'd been surprised to find that there were actually spells already out there, old spells, for summoning a demon by name. Phil didn't want to think too deeply about why anyone would have needed to do it before.

This time, he wasn't expecting an imp. If the spell worked, he'd have something much more dangerous on his hands.

A part of him almost missed the time when demon summoning seemed foolish and the most he'd hoped for was, possibly, an imp.

Phil walked around the circle slowly, bowing to the correct compass points and forcing out the words even though they seemed to curdle on his tongue. He threw the last handful of sand onto a brazier and spat out the final syllable of the chant with an effort that had his head swim. Nothing happened at first, and his heart began to sink. He'd been so sure this would work.

Then an explosion knocked him off his feet, throwing him back against the wall, and bright light burned his eyes as flames seemed to boil out of the ground. Heat seared his skin, and the stench of sulphur filled his lungs and made him choke.

The flames died down with a shocking suddenness, and Phil squinted through streaming eyes. His back and shoulders ached from the impact with the wall and the stone floor was cold through the heavy fabric of his jeans. He bit off a curse as he tried to sit up straighter, and the effort made pain shoot around his ribs.

"I can help you with that, if you'd let me," a low, feminine voice said.

Phil slowly sat upright and peered into the circle. Most of the candles had been put out by the explosion, but a thick red one still burned in the corner. It gave just enough light for Phil to see a figure hunched in the middle, curled up as though she was trying to take up as little space as possible.

"Natasha Romanov?" Phil asked.

She straightened up slightly. Her black eyes seemed to suck in the dim light, and Phil swallowed hard. It would be impossible to pretend she was anything except for what she was: a demon, in all the ways Clint had never been.

"Yes," she said. "That's my name."

"Why did you give it to me?" Phil asked.

There was a ripple of movement that might have been a graceful shrug. "I can't come to the mortal world without being summoned."

"Why do you want to be here?"

"To help you rescue Clint. That's why you called me, isn't it?"

***

It took Phil a few minutes to light fresh oil lamps and clear the residue of incense from the air. Natasha watched him with a hint of amusement on her lips, which sent a shiver down his spine that he tried to ignore. She was just as unsettling here as she had been in the library, even though she was bound to the circle, and Phil knew she couldn't harm him.

In the brighter light, the extreme pallor of her skin and the vibrant red of her hair were more apparent. That only seemed to make the blackness of her eyes worse, though, and Phil had to force himself to meet them when he sat down outside the circle. A faint smirk lingered around the corners of her lips, as though she'd forgotten how to turn off the mocking expression.

"Why do you want to rescue Clint?" Phil asked, without preamble. "What are they doing to him?"

Natasha gracefully shrugged one shoulder. "Anything you can imagine, but a hundred times worse. He's not exactly popular at the moment."

"Why did you help to send him back?"

"I was contracted," Natasha said. "I can't break a contract. It's not in my nature."

"But now you want to rescue him."

"He's a friend."

Phil raised his eyebrows. "I didn't think demons have friends."

"Clint isn't like most demons."

"I've noticed that."

Another amused smile curved Natasha's lips, making Phil shudder. "You have no idea what he really is, do you?"

"I thought he was a demon," Phil said. "He's got the tail for it."

"Oh, he's a demon," Natasha said. "He's very good at it. You could say that he works for it, harder than most of us."

Phil narrowed his eyes. "But?"

"He's not as much of a demon as he thinks he is." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "He probably knows that, now. I don't know--I didn't stick around to find out what they were doing with him. Knowing who contracted me, though, I don't think he got to keep his innocence for long."

Phil thought about Clint, with his lascivious grins and seductive eyes, and almost snorted out loud. Innocent was the last word he'd ever have associated with the demon. That tail alone...

He shifted on the hair stone floor, pushing the thought away. "Innocence?"

"About his heritage," Natasha said. "That's why he needs to be rescued. A full demon could survive whatever they've got planned for him without a problem. You might even say that we're built for it. Clint isn't a full demon, though. He only thinks he is."

It took Phil a couple of tries to parse the meaning, and when he finally understood, he gaped at her. "He only thinks he's a demon?"

"He's a half-demon," Natasha said. "On his father's side."

"How?"

Natasha shrugged. "The usual story. Girl meets boy, girl marries boy, girl can't conceive so girl makes a pact with a demon. Except Clint's father was a twisted bastard, even for one of us, and he planted his own seed. You can probably work out how that went."

Phil shook his head. "Believe me, I can't. I didn't think it was possible."

"Badly," Natasha said. "Very badly. The mother didn't survive, and Clint's father claimed him instead of strangling him at birth, which pissed off a lot of very powerful demons. Clint's only lasted this long because his father had power, and he was useful to some big names down there."

"So what happened?"

Natasha's lips flattened, and Phil had to lock his spine so that he didn't cringe at the expression in her black eyes.

"Barney happened," she said. "Barney and his revolution. Clint isn't protected anymore, not now that he's tried to help his brother overthrow Lucifer himself."

"But if he's half-demon..."

"He'll endure for a while," Natasha said. "The longer he's down there, the more his demon side dominates. He's never spent much time up here, so his human side wasn't very noticeable before. Until you came along. He'll revert back to a more demonic nature for a while, but his human side is going to get him killed down there eventually. Killed very painfully, probably."

A thought struck Phil, and he frowned. "Is that why I couldn't send him back?"

Natasha smiled. "I wondered how long it would take you to work that out."

"Did he know?"

"No," Natasha said. "I only found out when I signed the contract to bring him back. He probably had no idea. He hasn't had a good reason to refuse a summoning or banishment before, so he I doubt he'd tried until you called him."

"He didn't seem surprised when I couldn't send him back."

"It might have taken him a while to figure out that the problem wasn't just an incompetent human."

Phil decided not to take offence at that. He suspected there would be worse to come. "Why do you think I can help?"

Natasha's smile turned sly. "Because you're a human. I can take you back with me, if you say the right incantation. And you can get yourself out on your own. That's one thing demons can't do."

"Clint said there were rules."

"Humans are the only creatures who can open the doors between our worlds," Natasha said. "Once you're down there, I can help you to find him and free him. Getting both of you out again will be your job."

Phil frowned. "What if I can't?"

"Then you'll die an excruciating and terrible death with Clint," Natasha said lightly.

"You're not a comforting person, are you?" Phil asked.

"I'm a demon. I'm not meant to be comforting."

It was so close to something that Clint might have said, that Phil felt a momentary ache somewhere deep in his chest. He didn't like to admit it, but he missed Clint, more than he'd ever imagined he would. Clint was annoying, persistent, almost hilariously seductive...and he'd moved into a corner of Phil's heart that he'd almost believed was dead.

That part of his heart had been aching even before Clint was taken away. It had been hurting for Clint ever since they'd kissed--and almost done more--in his bed. Clint's reaction had given Phil hope that there was something more to it than habitual seduction; that he'd felt something, and that feeling had frightened him. Maybe it was a foolish thing to hope for, but Phil hadn't been able to stop himself.

Refusing Natasha's offer was impossible. Just the thought of what might be happening to Clint made Phil feel slightly sick, and he was sure his imagination wasn't twisted enough to conjure up the full horror of the punishments being heaped on him.

"How much time do we have?" Phil asked.

"How much time?"

"Before they do anything permanent to him," Phil said. "Before we can't bring him back."

Natasha's eyes widened, as though she hadn't expected him to understand the warnings she'd been carefully talking around. "Not long. They'll keep him chained up for a while, so that he can think about what's going to happen to him, but they'll start on him soon. He'll lose his mind fast, if that helps at all."

"It doesn't." Phil frowned, thinking quickly. "Stay here. I'll need some supplies, then you can take me."

Natasha smiled sardonically. "Where would I go?"

***

Preparing for a trip into hell wasn't something Phil had ever expected to need to know about. He didn't think it was something anyone ever expected. Even the demon summoners in the city probably hadn't done this. They'd just allowed themselves to be used while thinking they were the ones in charge.

When this was all over, Phil was going to do something about them. He wasn't sure what yet, but without their interference, he might not be planning a trip to rescue Clint.

A small voice inside tried to point out that if he hadn't tried to prove demon summoning was impossible, he wouldn't be planning a trip to rescue Clint, either. If he hadn't done that, hadn't cast the summoning at just the right moment, Clint would have been caught and punished already.

Phil couldn't take the entire library with him, even though it would have been useful, but he could take a few useful items from it. He grabbed a sturdy-looking backpack from the lost and found box and spent a few minutes touring the shelves of the occult section, grabbing small books that he thought might be useful. Back in his office, he bagged up supplies of herbs and sand, stuffing them into the outer pockets. He changed into the heavy walking boots he'd accidentally left in his office after a snow storm last year. The jeans and sweater he'd worn for the summoning were old and scruffy, and he briefly considered changing back into the suit hanging on the back of his door.

Jeans and a sweater were probably more practical, though. There was no way to tell what kind of territory he'd have to get through to find Clint.

Remembering the mystery of his missing predecessor, Phil sat down at his computer and typed a quick email. He couldn't come right out and say "Sorry, need some personal leave for a trip to hell to rescue my annoyingly attractive demon", but he tried to convey the spirit and the urgency in his request for a couple of days of leave anyway. Then he copied in Steve, Sitwell, and Darcy, in addition to Fury, just to cover all his bases. Sometimes Fury wasn't great at communicating with the rest of the staff, and Phil didn't want to come back and find that he'd been reported missing to the police just because Fury forgot to let his people know that he was out.

Phil chose not to think about the consequences if he didn't come back.

Almost as an afterthought, just as he was closing down his computer, he pulled out the binding bracelets and tucked them inside the backpack. He wasn't sure why, but it felt like the right thing to do.

He took one last look around the office, checking everything was in place, before stepping into the casting room and tugging the concealing door shut behind him.

***

Travelling between worlds made Clint's little trips look almost pleasant. After his struggles to send Clint back, it seemed almost pathetically easy to banish Natasha. So easy, in fact, that Phil was forced to admit that she might be telling the truth about Clint. If the traces of humanity in his body had enabled him to refuse to go back, even when Phil used spells supposedly powerful enough to banish Princes of Hell, then a lot became clearer.

All Phil had to do was say three words and a whirlwind sprang up around Natasha, hot air and ash clouding her from his sight. At the last moment, a hand shot out and grabbed his arm, and he was sucked down with her.

Phil's body and soul felt as though it was being turned inside out. Cold sank into his bones but his skin was on fire, so painful that he wanted to scream. He couldn't draw breath, though, because there was no air. Only fire, and ice, and darkness trying to suck all the joy and goodness from the core of him.

***

Phil landed on a hard surface and dust puffed up around him, choking him as soon as he tried to suck in air. He coughed and spat for what felt like forever, lungs burning and eyes streaming.

Eventually he rolled over on his back and managed to drag in a shaky breath that didn't try to kill him. The air was hot and much too dry. Bright light burned against his eyelids, and he barely managed to swallow down a pathetic whimper.

A soft sigh broke the dead silence. "Humans."

Phil turned his head in the direction of the voice and squinted. He could make out Natasha's form silhouetted against the bright sky, looming over him, but there was something wrong with it. Something had changed. It took him a few seconds to figure it out.

He sat up and the different angle allowed him to see her more clearly. His throat constricted for a moment, and he had to work hard to force out words past the lump of fear. What he really wanted to do was scream, but he sensed that would be a bad plan here.

"What happened?" he asked, feeling his voice crack on the last syllable.

Natasha smiled and the tips of two tiny fangs dimpled against her lips. "This is my true form. Don't you like it?"

Her skin was dead white, making her blood red lips and hair stand out unnaturally against it. Black eyes seemed emptier and darker than ever, and Phil hard to drag his gaze away from them before he got sucked in and lost. She still wore the fitted leather jacket and jeans she'd worn before, but the shape of her shoulders warned him that there was something underneath that he didn't want to think about too closely.

"You don't have a tail," Phil said. He wanted to take the words back immediately. "I'm sorry."

Natasha shrugged, which did unpleasantly serpentine things to her neck and shoulders. "Don't be. I don't miss it."

The implications of that...Phil decided not to think about it.

"Where are we?" he asked instead.

The landscape around them was a featureless desert of dark red sand. The sky above was white and painfully bright, but Phil couldn't see anything that resembled a sun. It was hot enough that his skin was already prickling with sweat. He couldn't see anything to indicate there would be water here.

"I brought you to one of the quiet corners," Natasha said. "We can't just transport directly into Clint's cell, obviously. This is one of the nicer neighbourhoods."

Phil didn't want to know what the less nice neighbourhoods were like. He had a feeling he'd be finding out, though.

"What happens next?" he asked.

"We start walking," Natasha said.

"How far away is Clint?"

Natasha turned slightly and pointed. "See that castle?"

Phil followed the line and squinted. There was a tiny bump on the horizon, as though something massive was poking up out of the featureless desert. He couldn't understand how Natasha had even been able to figure out the right direction to look in from all the flat, undistinguished sand.

"I think so," he said. "That's where we're going?"

"That's where we're going. Start walking, it might take us a while."

Phil's mouth was already dry. He would drop long before he reached their destination if the relentless heat kept beating at him. "Is there water out there?"

Natasha lifted her eyebrows. "You'd trust anything you found down here to drink?"

After a moment's thought, Phil shook his head. "Good point."

Phil stood and stripped out of his sweater, stowing it carefully in the top of his backpack. There was no good reason for the sensation, but somehow he felt even more vulnerable without its thick weight on his shoulders. The thin fabric of his t-shirt was already damp with his sweat.

There was a hint of an amused smile at the corners of Natasha's lips when Phil straightened up, slinging his backpack on his shoulder. He cocked his head.

"Nice t-shirt," Natasha said. "Will this help?"

Phil glanced down at his shirt, ruthlessly suppressing a wince as he noticed the logo across the front. It had been a gag gift from Darcy last Christmas.

The appearance of three water bottles by his feet distracted him, though. Condensation streamed down the plastic sides, and the Evian label seemed oddly out of place in the barren landscape.

"Where did these come from?" he asked.

"Same place Clint gets his chocolate milk and Froot Loops," Natasha said casually. "I left some money in the till. The owner has been going out of his mind over the last few weeks, trying to reconcile his stock records."

Phil made a mental note to talk to Clint about appropriating goods without payment, and then felt his heart sink a little. If he didn't succeed, he'd never be able to talk about anything with him again.

"It's safe," Natasha said, gesturing to the water. "I won't be able to bring more when we're closer to the castle, so take it now or die from dehydration later. It's your choice. But time's running out and if you die before you even get to Clint..."

She didn't need to finish the sentence. Phil could fill it in for her, and he shuddered internally. Now that he was down here, in one of the less terrible parts, he was starting to realise how unprepared he had been for the reality of what was happening to Clint.

Natasha nodded. "You're starting to get it. Time to start walking. We've got a long way to go."

Phil broke open one bottle and drained half before stuffing it, with the other two, deep in his backpack. He swung the pack onto his shoulders, tightened the straps, and tried to look as determined and unafraid as he knew how.

"Let's go," he said, and started walking through hell.

***

They walked for hours. Phil rationed his water supply as tightly as he could, limiting himself to small sips when his throat was so dry it hurt, but he was still well into the second bottle and the castle on the horizon didn't seem to be getting any closer. His skin was sore from the heat and the constant blowing sand, slowly turning red enough that he could almost be a match for Clint.

Natasha looked untouched. Her dead white skin didn't show the effects of the heat, and there wasn't even a trickle of sweat at her temples. This was her territory, her world, and it showed.

Phil tried not to look at her as he walked. Her eyes and mouth made his skin crawl.

The heat was bad enough, but the silence beat at him until he couldn't stand it anymore. It was a dead, terrible kind of silence. Not just the absence of other life, but the total negation of any possibility of life. It was easy to believe that anyone trapped in this world would slowly go mad.

"The silence isn't so bad," Natasha said quietly, as though she'd heard his thoughts. Maybe she had. "When it's noisy, that's when you should be afraid."

"How do you stand it?" Phil asked.

"How do you stand your world?" she asked. "It's so cold, and everyone clumps together in yuor crowded, dirty cities. How do you do it?"

"It's what we're used to."

Natasha nodded, and gestured around at the featureless landscape. "This is what we're used to."

"Clint seemed to like my world."

"Clint has always been odd." A small smile curved Natasha's lips, and Phil looked away quickly. "It's the humanity in him."

"Is that why he's being punished?"

"He's being punished because he was idiot enough to join Barney's revolution."

"What's happening to Barney?"

There was distaste and anger in Natasha's voice. "He bargained himself a pardon, for bringing Clint home."

"Oh." Phil frowned. "So is Clint being punished for what he did, or for his heritage?"

After a brief pause, Natasha reluctantly said, "He probably could have made a bargain if he wasn't what he is. We all love a good bargain."

"Demon society is built on contracts and bargains."

"Exactly."

"So why are you trying to save him? Your friendship didn't stop you taking a contract to capture him."

Natasha didn't answer for a long time, and her voice was unexpectedly soft when she finally spoke. "Not every bargain is sealed by a contract. He's a friend, and I owe him. If we rescue him, my ledger is clear."

"I take it that friendships are rare down here."

"Very rare."

Phil nodded. "That doesn't surprise me."

They walked on for a while longer. Phil was uncomfortably aware that Natasha was sneaking sideways glances at him now and then, but he didn't ask. It seemed safer.

Eventually, Natasha spoke. Her gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, but she seemed to be examining his reactions anyway. "Why are you trying to rescue Clint? He can't have been easy to live with."

That was something Phil had been trying not to think about ever since Clint disappeared. The strange tugs in his chest, the emptiness in his apartment, the memories of holding onto something solid and warm when everything else seemed wrong; he'd never wanted any of it, but somehow Clint had squeezed himself into every part of Phil's life.

It should have been a relief to have his life back to what it had been before. Quiet, orderly, normal.

The world felt duller without Clint around.

Phil missed him with a solid ache that wouldn't go away.

"Oh," Natasha said after a while.

Phil shrugged. "It crept up on me."

"He does that to people."

"What do we do after we've got him?" Phil asked, trying to change the subject. "How do we stop another demon coming for him and bringing him back?"

"I've got some ideas," Natasha said. "You can help with one of them."

"I can?"

"You can make sure another demon can't come for him."

Phill frowned. "How?"

"Shut down the summoners in your city," Natasha said. "They think they're in charge, but they're not. They're in thrall. How do you think Barney and I got to your world in the first place? How do you think the hell hound got there, and the tracking imps, and the other shit that's been following you around? Shut them down, and most of your demon problem goes away. I can take care of the rest from down here."

"Shutting them down isn't going to be easy."

"I never said it would be. But it's the only way I can see of keeping Clint safe if you can get him out of here. The summoners up there are being controlled, even though they don't know it, so if you shut them down, the demons won't have a way to get through anymore."

"Someone else could summon one."

Natasha shrugged, the movement rippling something wrong under her leather jacket. "Maybe. But most people in your world think demon summoning is a myth. If you do the job right, it's going to be a long time before anyone is stupid enough to experiment again."

Phil told himself that the warmth in his face came from the heat in the air around him. "I wanted to prove it was impossible."

"You're not like most people in your world."

"I'm not?"

"Don't sound pleased. That wasn't a compliment."

***

Night didn't fall.

The sky remained bright and relentlessly hot, even though Phil's internal clock told him that was wrong. His watch face had cracked and stopped when Natasha brought him over, so he couldn't be sure, but the exhaustion creeping over him was enough of a guide. They stopped occasionally, to allow him to rest and take a few cautious sips of water, but Natasha always pressed on long before he felt ready.

"Doesn't it get dark down here?" Phil asked.

Natasha's lips flattened. "Trust me, you don't want to be here when it gets dark."

Phil didn't ask again.

The castle on the horizon finally started to get larger at the same time that his legs started to get so shaky that he had to sit before he fell. Natasha glared down at him, lying sprawled on the sand, and Phil waved a hand weakly.

"I just need a few minutes," he said.

His stomach had been cramping with hunger for a long time, but Phil wasn't going to ask for food. Not here. Not now. He was down to the last bottle of water and Natasha had warned him a long time ago that was all she could do for him.

Pushing her to bring food and more water would probably be a terrible mistake. She was already looking twitchy.

It was unsettling watching a creature like her frown at the horizon and look over her shoulder constantly.

"You've had a few minutes," Natasha said after a while. "We need to move."

Phil reluctantly got to his feet, trying to ignore the way his legs had stiffened and started to ache while he rested. "Is it much further?"

"Are you that eager to get there?"

"Clint needs us," Phil said, refusing to admit that he didn't know how much further he could walk.

Natasha seemed to understand anyway. Her lips turned down and she frowned at the horizon again. "We've covered a lot of ground."

It wasn't reassuring, but it seemed to be all she would concede. Phil tightened his shoulder straps and walked on.

***

"Where is everyone?" he asked, after another long silence.

Natasha shot him a strange look. "Everyone?"

"I always assumed there would be people here," Phil said. "Tormented souls being tortured. This feels too empty."

"You think we'd just keep the souls lying around?" Natasha asked, sounding unsettlingly amused.

"I suppose so. It's what I read in books."

"Ah. Dante. That's what you've been basing your assumptions on."

Phil shrugged.

"Most writers haven't been here," Natasha said. "They're creative and a few have ended up here eventually, but most of them were working from their imaginations. They weren't accurate."

"So there are souls being tortured somewhere."

"Yes. But we don't keep them just lying around. We'd be tripping over them all the time. There are places for them and the ones who torment them. The screaming sounds pretty for a while, but eventually it gets irritating if that's all you can hear. Even the best pleasures become unpleasant if you're fed a steady diet. We prefer to save it for a special occasion."

"Like Disneyland for demons," Phil suggested.

"Exactly."

"Will anyone be taking a day trip to see Clint's punishment?"

Natasha glared at the castle. "Only if we fail."

***

The castle slowly grew larger, the only sign that they were making any kind of progress. The landscape didn't change, and Phil's head was aching from the ceaseless heat and blowing sand. He put his head down and kept walking, following the faint impressions of Natasha's boots.

He'd slipped into an exhausted fugue by the time they passed the first black boulders, so he barely noticed them at the corner of his eye. The sand was as red as ever, but he began to notice small black pebbles mixed with it, and then his foot caught on a larger rock, sending him sprawling. Something sharp and hard jabbed him in the ribs when he landed, knocking the breath out of his lungs.

Natasha made an unhappy sound and turned back while Phil was still fighting to draw in air.

"Watch your feet," she said, in a low tone. "And be quiet."

Phil finally managed to suck in enough air to clear the black spots from the edges of his vision. He concentrated for a couple of minutes on breathing steadily, in and out, before pushing up onto his knees and glaring up at her. His side throbbed and his head was still swimming, but Natasha took a step back, and Phil felt a moment of odd pride at being able to do that.

"I'm trying," he said, through gritted teeth.

Natasha stared down at him for a long moment, before nodding. "We're almost there. He doesn't usually post guards because they're not necessary, but we still need to be quiet if we're going to get in undetected."

Phil shaded his eyes and stared at the castle, now looming black and huge against the bright sky. "Do you have a plan?"

"Of course," Natasha said. "Follow me. And don't fall over again. You should probably drink something, if you're feeling dizzy."

Two small mouthfuls of water left a depressingly tiny amount in his water bottle, but Phil felt better for it. He wasn't sure why he was trying to preserve some now that they were so close to their goal, but it seemed like the right thing to do.

Natasha moved fast when they set out again, using the boulders for cover and scurrying between them as she approached the castle. Phil followed as well as he could, although he was uncomfortably aware that he didn't have her talent for moving quickly and silently. He could do one or the other, never both, so he settled for fast.

The castle's architecture looked impossible now that they were close to it. Turrets erupted from the sides and roofs, twisting in configurations that should have surrendered to gravity long ago. Carvings and hideous gargoyles crawled up the walls and hung from pinnacles. Trying to puzzle out the connections between towers and walkways made Phil's head hurt, so he stopped trying.

Small bumps decorated the battlements and it took Phil a while to work out that they were rotting heads on spikes. Some of the faces looked almost human, although their expressions were so hideous that most of the humanity had bled away.

Phil carefully didn't look up at the castle walls after that.

The castle didn't cast any shadows, not even under overhanging turrets. When Phil realised that, he looked down at his feet and noticed for the first time that he wasn't casting a shadow, either. Nor was Natasha. The lack of shadows was somehow even more unsettling than the impossible architecture.

There was a huge arching gateway in one wall. No guards stood outside, but the size of it indicated it was the main entrance to the castle. Natasha led the way past it and around a corner, to a tiny door almost hidden against the black stone. She pressed an ear against the wood for a long moment, eyes closed, before stepping back and putting a hand on the lock. The scent of charring wood and a thin line of smoked drifted away from the door. A moment later, the lock fell to the ground with a heavy thump.

A large hole had been burned in the door. Phil swallowed hard at the casual display of power.

Natasha pushed the door and it swung open silently. "After you?"

"Are you sure?" Phil asked.

"Yes." Natasha's tiny fangs appeared as she smiled. "If we run into anyone, you can distract them."

"What will you be doing?"

"Running."

It seemed like a really bad plan to Phil, but the grim expression on Natasha's face persuaded him. He stepped inside.

***

Sputtering torches with blue flames lit the way. After the intense heat outside, the castle's cooler air felt almost freezing against Phil's skin, which was a relief at first, but quickly soaked into his bones until his teeth chattered. He wasn't sure whether it was heat stroke, sunburn, exhaustion, or a combination of all three. Whatever it was, he started to ache from the cold faster than he'd expected.

Maybe the real torment of hell was the constant discomfort rather than something more intense.

Or maybe not.

The hallways were empty. It was such a jarring contrast to Phil's expectations that he couldn't shake the sense that something about all of this was wrong. Natasha seemed perfectly at ease as she directed him to turn corners and open doors, but every step increased the tension tightening Phil's muscles. His head started to throb with it and he kept glancing over his shoulder, only to meet Natasha's unsettling eyes.

After the fifth turn and the third easily opened door, Phil stopped and frowned. "I don't like this. It's too empty."

Natasha took a couple of steps past him, before slowing and turning. Her skin almost seemed to glow in the dim bluish lights. "It's too easy."

"Exactly."

"I've been worrying for a while," Natasha said.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"It didn't seem worth mentioning."

"Demons have odd priorities."

Natasha shrugged. "Sometimes, it's easier if everyone thinks I know everything."

"Do you have a plan?" Phil asked.

"Same as before," Natasha said. "Find the dungeons, find Clint. It's your job to get him out of here."

Phil sighed. "So, we'll continue walking to our possibly painful deaths and hope that everything is exactly as innocent it looks, in a castle in hell ruled by a very angry and powerful demon."

"Yes."

"I don't like this."

"Where's your sense of fun?" Natasha asked.

Phil suppressed a shudder as she smiled. "I think it got left behind on my desk."

"If it makes you feel better, I'll go first."

"That might make me feel better," Phil said. "Are you armed?"

The wicked, horrible grin she gave him was all the answer he needed.

Fuck.

***

After a few more turns, they went through a door that led to a staircase. It twisted down in narrow spirals, each step an uneven depth and height, and Phil was quickly cursing under his breath. The flickering light from the torches set in the walls only added to the confusion, so that sometimes he was stepping down heavily onto an unexpectedly shallow step, and sometimes he almost fell when his foot encountered clear air.

Natasha trotted down with no difficult and was soon lost around the spiral. Phil was forced to go slowly or tumble to a painful, and probably permanent, end.

Then again, was death in hell permanent? Could he die down here?

It was an unsettling thought that he had to force himself to push aside.

He lost track of time, so he didn't know how long it was before the faint sounds of a fight floated up to him. The smack of flesh on flesh and the sudden crack of breaking bone sent a shiver down his spine. He tried to descend faster and immediately stumbled on a step barely wide enough for half his foot.

Phil scrabbled at the walls, trying to catch himself, but the stone was slick and damp. He teetered for a moment, trying to push his centre of gravity in the opposite direction from his momentum. Just as he started to fall, someone shoved him from below, and he collapsed back against the steps. His heart was hammering in his ears and his breath was coming too fast, but nothing seemed to be broken.

"You didn't have far to fall," Natasha said, sounding amused. "You're practically at the bottom. If you want to try that again, I've got a couple of bodies I can move to cushion your landing."

Phil slowly stood up. Natasha was standing a couple of steps down, looking completely unruffled despite the implications of her words.

"Thank you," he said.

Natasha shook her head. "Didn't Clint teach you anything? Never thank a demon. We might try to use it as a promise for something later."

Phil ignored her. "Did you find some guards at last?"

"That depends on your definition," Natasha said. "I found some creatures standing around outside the entrance to the dungeon. They were useless guards. I've seen accountants with better fighting skills."

"Sometimes the IRS can be brutal," Phil said.

Natasha narrowed her eyes. "Were you trying to make an accountancy joke?"

"Maybe."

"There's a special place in hell for people who do that. If we didn't have more important things to do, I'd take you there myself."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Natasha gestured. "Are you ready for the dungeons?"

"Not really," Phil said. "But lead the way."

***

The dungeons were even colder than the rest of the castle. Phil almost asked Natasha for a pause so that he could pull on his sweater, but the sensitivity of his sunburnt skin persuaded him not to. 

Doors lined the hallway, each one fitted with a tiny window and a massive lock. Phil looked inside a couple of the cells as they went past, hoping to see Clint's familiar face, but he quickly ceded that duty to Natasha. He'd never considered himself to be squeamish before, but there were some things that nobody should see. 

Natasha seemed unmoved by what she saw inside each cell. Or at least, her face betrayed nothing, and Phil didn't look into her eyes.

Checking all the cells took time, but they wordlessly agreed that they couldn't leave any unexamined, even though the odds were good that Clint had been put in the deepest, most unpleasant one. Some of the creatures inside made noises as they passed, low moans and desperate whines, and Phil almost felt guilty about leaving them behind to their fates.

Natasha shook her head the first time Phil tried to suggest that they should attempt to free some of the prisoners, and Phil didn't ask again. Clint might not deserve what was happening to him, but that didn't mean the rest of the creatures down here were innocent.

And anyway, what would he do with a herd of demons if he took them home? Clint was enough work, and apparently he wasn't even a full demon. He'd just thought he was.

The corridor became narrower and smellier as they went down. Phil breathed carefully through his mouth and wished he had something to stopper up his nose with. He wasn't sure whether that would help. The stench seemed to be a living thing, coating his mouth and throat, making his stomach turn each time he swallowed. His mouth was so dry that he couldn't swallow much, which was a mixed blessing, but he refused to finish the last of his water. It might be needed later.

They finally found Clint's cell at the end of a narrow corridor that branched off the main one. It was the only door, and there was only one torch down there, fixed to the wall halfway down. The dim bluish light didn't provide much illumination.

Natasha looked in through the tiny window, and her lips went flat. When she turned to gesture Phil closer, the anger tightening her pale face made him take a step back before he caught himself.

He took a shallow breath and forced himself to move forward, closer to the door. The cell was so dark inside that he could barely make out anything apart from vague shapes.

"Clint?" he said softly.

There was a quiet rattle of chains, as though someone had moved, but Phil still couldn't see anything. Natasha's vision must be better than his.

"Can we just not, today?" Clint's voice sounded rusty and painful. "Can't you get to the whipping and torture part of this?"

Phil strained to see something, anything, inside the dark cell, but he couldn't. He tried to make his voice as soothing as he could. "It's really me."

A sharp bark of harsh laughter floated out. "Yeah, right, that'll convince me. Fuck off, okay? I'm not playing your games anymore."

Natasha nudged him in the ribs, and Phil reluctantly moved aside. There wasn't anything he could do while Clint was inside the cell, anyway.

She knelt down in front of the lock and glared at it for a while. Her lips formed words, but Phil suspected he should be grateful that he couldn't hear whatever curses she was muttering. He half-expected her to pull out a set of lock picks or maybe a stolen key. Natasha seemed like the kind of woman...demon...person, who carried that kind of thing.

Instead, she stood up after a while and put a hand on the lock. The scent of burning and sulphur filled the air, mingling with the other smells to create a noxious miasma that made Phil's throat burn. He coughed and spluttered, eyes tearing.

The lock fell out of the door with a heavy, metallic clunk. Phil got his breathing under control and wiped his eyes, in time to see Natasha put a hand in the charred hole where the lock had been and swing the door open.

Chains rattled inside the cell again, and Clint said, incredulously, "Natasha?"

She gestured for Phil, reaching out to grab his arm when he didn't move fast enough for her. He found himself being shoved forward, inside the cell, and stumbling as his foot caught on a heavy metal chain. He landed on his knees and swore as pain shot through them.

"Phil?" Clint said, sounding even more shocked. "It's really you?"

A tiny bubble of light floated up to the ceiling, brightening the cell just enough to see by, and Phil shot Natasha a quick smile of gratitude. She rolled her eyes and flicked the light higher.

A moment later, Phil almost regretted being able to see. Clint was kneeling in the middle of the cell, looking as demonic as he'd ever been. His skin was deep red, horns poke up out of his spiky hair, and his tail was flicking restlessly against the floor. The ragged remains of his favourite purple boxers covered his dignity. Phil chose not to examine why he knew they were Clint's favourite.

This was not the right time to be thinking about Clint's underwear. Really. Definitely.

Clint's arms were stretched over his head, held up by a chain attached to the ceiling at one end, and to a pair of heavy manacles around his wrists at the other. Thin trails of dark blood down his arms testified to the chafing they'd caused.

Heavy cuffs around his ankles were attached to another chain, stretched across the floor to a bolt in the wall. That was what Phil had tripped on. 

Worst of all, there was a collar around his neck with a thin chain trailing down his back to the cuffs around his ankles. It didn't look quite long enough to allow Clint to stand upright, which explained why he was kneeling with his arms pulled up so high.

His red skin was darker in places, probably bruises, but the only blood Phil could see was on his arms. Whatever they'd been doing to him, they didn't seem to have started beating or hurting Clint yet. Physically, anyway.

Without thinking, Phil reached out to touch Clint's jaw, cupping it lightly. Clint made a soft sound at the back of his throat and leaned into his hand.

Phil had to swallow around a lump in his throat before he could speak. "We're really here. I promise. We're going to get you out."

"You're my rescuers?" Clint said.

"Exactly."

"I might not believe you until we're out, okay?"

"That's okay," Phil said. "Just try not to make this difficult for us."

"I'll try," Clint said. "I mean, you might be another fake, but I've got to take a chance. Just in case you're real."

"That's all we need." Phil looked over to Natasha. "How do we get him out of these chains?"

Natasha had been picked her way carefully around the cell, examining the bolts fastening them to the walls. She moved closer and peered at the cuffs and collar for a while, touching the loops attached to the chains without touching anything else. Phil couldn't see anything that looked like a lock.

"We'll have to cut them," Natasha said eventually. "Did you bring bolt-cutters?"

"I'm a librarian," Phil said. "I don't normally keep bolt-cutters in my desk."

"You really should," Natasha said. "They're useful."

"Not in my line of work. And why would bolt-cutters work on these? That doesn't make any sense."

"The collar suppresses Clint's powers," Natasha said. "And the chains can't be removed from their anchors. Why waste more energy on making them unbreakable?"

Phil frowned. "I suppose that makes sense."

Clint smiled bitterly. "He does it to make us think we can get out, if only we could figure out how to get around the power suppression. We could melt them or break them or something."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Guess I pissed off the wrong demon, huh?" Clint wrenched at the chain holding his arms overhead, and another thin trail of blood began to slide down his arms. "He's kind of an expert at this shit."

"Is there anything you can do?" Phil asked.

"No," Natasha said bluntly. "Unless you want me to bring some bolt-cutters in from your world and alert the entire castle that we're here?"

"That sounds like a bad plan," Clint said. "And trust me, I know bad plans."

"Do you have anything in those books of yours that might work?" Natasha asked.

Phil started to shake his head, but he paused. Thought for a moment. "I might, if my spells won't bring down the castle on us."

"They might not," Natasha said. "It's less likely than if I do it."

That wasn't the kind of comforting response Phil had been looking for, but he supposed it would have to do. If they didn't try something, they'd never get Clint out. He had a feeling that the chains would prevent him from just magicking Clint out of the cell back to the human world.

Clint rattled his chain hopefully. "Can't make this any worse, right?

"I'm pretty sure we could," Natasha said.

"Can you stop trying to be comforting?" Clint said. "Because you really suck at it."

Natasha shrugged. "I'm realistic."

"Then can you take your realism over to the door and keep watch? Because your realism is really not helping in here right now."

"I'm going to pretend that you're really very grateful and captivity has made you grumpy," Natasha said. "Otherwise, you'd be making me reconsider rescuing you."

She stationed herself at the door anyway, and Phil flashed Clint a smile. It was easier to concentrate without her black eyes on him.

Clint's answering smile held a hint of uncertainty. "How did she talk you into doing this?"

Phil unslung his backpack and began rifling through the contents, hunting for the small notebook he'd been writing down useful spells in and the willow wand he'd stuck in as a last minute "just in case". He was sure they were in here, and searching for them gave him a good excuse for not looking at Clint.

"She didn't have to," Phil said.

"Oh."

"I wasn't planning to force you to come back," Phil continued, pulling out his sweater to make it easier to see everything else. "But when she explained what was happening to you...well, she didn't have to talk me into a rescue."

"Why was she explaining what happened?"

"She left me her name. I summoned her."

"Oh," Clint said again. After a beat, he added, "Guess I owe her something, huh?"

"She said something about clearing her ledger."

"Guess I owe you something, then," Clint said. "I mean, this is pretty extreme, and you can't tell me that you did this out of any kind of duty. I was off your hands, not your problem anymore."

Phil's hand closed around the leather cover of his notebook, and he pulled it out. "You don't owe me anything."

"Pretty sure I do," Clint said. "You know, the whole journey into hell to save my ass is kind of beyond what most people would do for someone like me."

"It's a very nice ass."

There was an odd sound that might have been a demon choking. "Did you just flirt with me?"

Phil hesitated. "Maybe?"

"I liked it," Clint said. "Just so you know. Keep up the flirting, if you want to."

Phil's fingers finally touched willow, and he carefully pulled out the wand. "I'm pretty sure that was it. That was my flirting repertoire."

"A compliment to my ass," Clint said. "I guess I can live with that. I mean, you could compliment some other things. If you were looking for other avenues for flirtation."

"You're fishing for compliments now."

"Is that such a bad thing?"

"Probably." Phil concentrated on flipping through his notebook, which also gave him a good excuse for not looking at Clint. Not that he was looking for one, obviously. It was important to find the spell he'd remembered. Very important. "I have a feeling that flirting with you would lead to things that we probably shouldn't be thinking about in a cell in the middle of hell."

Clint sighed. "I guess."

Phil told himself firmly that he was pleased Clint recognised the gravity of their situation and the inappropriateness of flirting. He told himself that three times, and frowned down at the index of his notebook. It took him several attempts to take in any of the words.

Out of the corner of his eye, Phil noticed that Clint's tail had lifted from the floor and was now draped over Clint's shoulder. Its tip twitched against Clint's stomach. Phil didn't breathe a sigh of relief at seeing that it seemed to be intact and healthy. He didn't. Honestly.

Being concerned about a demon's tail was clearly a ridiculous thing. Particularly a demon who had rushed out of his bed so fast, a couple of days ago, that he'd hurt himself on powerful wards.

Clint cleared his throat. "Just so you know, despite appearances, I'm not really into the whole chained up and helpless thing. I mean, some rope can be a good thing in the right circumstances--"

Phil dropped his wand.

Clint's wicked chuckle sent heat rushing through Phil's face. He let the wand stay where it had fallen, and tried to pretend that it was deliberate.

There was an odd sound from the doorway, as though someone was desperately trying to stifle the urge to laugh.

Phil stared at his notebook intently. There was a diagram and a short spell, but it looked easy enough. He dug a stick of chalk out of his bag and began drawing, trying to ignore the feel of Clint's gaze on him, and the way Clint's tail was doing something that definitely wasn't 'twitching' against the bare red skin a few inches away.

It was probably a comfort thing. Habit. Because Clint definitely couldn't be doing...that...for Phil, when he was chained up and clearly afraid of what might happen next if they didn't get out. It was a ludicrous thought.

Completely inappropriate, particularly after the whole abortive sex and bouncing off powerful wards thing.

Although, Clint was part demon, and demons didn't seem to be particularly consistent.

Phil held the notebook in one hand and drew with the other, carefully forming a circle around the willow wand and copying symbols inside. Hell probably didn't have a north, so he couldn't be sure the compass points were right, but he did his best.

"What does it do?" Clint asked.

"If it works, we'll have a way to cut your chains." Phil finally dared a glance at him, only to find that Clint was tilting his head curiously as though he was trying to read the chalk markings. His tail had stopped moving. "If it doesn't, I'm not sure what we do next."

There was a flicker of something in Clint's blue eyes. It might have been fear, but it was gone too fast for Phil to see properly.

Clint shrugged, muscles rippling in his shoulders and chest in a very distracting manner. Phil suspected that was deliberate.

"If it doesn't work," Clint said, "you get out of here and don't look back. This isn't your problem."

"What if I'm making it my problem?"

"Then you're a fucking idiot...and I'm not sure what to do with that." Clint tipped his head back and took a deep, shuddering breath. He seemed to be studying the ceiling intently when he said, "I don't know what I am anymore, because this half-human shit is crazy, and I don't know what do with you, because nobody is supposed to do stuff like this for me. Nobody is supposed wa--like _me_."

Phil cautiously reached out and put a hand on Clint's shoulder. There wasn't much safe territory to touch, too much bare skin, but Clint turned his head and a small, surprisingly innocent smile appeared.

"I'll leave if this doesn't work," Phil said.

"Good."

Phil nodded and withdrew, sitting back on his heels to check his diagram over. Satisfied, he mouthed through the words to the spell a couple of times before saying them out loud, slowly and carefully.

The chalk outline lit up for a moment, so bright that Phil's eyes hurt. When his vision cleared, the chalk had burned away. He put a hand out and warmth radiated against his palm from the wand.

"It worked?" Clint asked.

"I think so," Phil said. "I'm going to try it."

"Try it fast," Natasha said. "That wasn't a quiet spell."

Phil pulled a silk handkerchief out of his pack and used it to wrap around one end of the willow, protecting his palm from the magical heat. He didn't know how long it would last, but hopefully it would be long enough. The wand was hot when he picked it up, but it didn't sear his flesh. That was promising.

He stood up, holding the want out in front of him, and eyed the chain stretching to the ceiling. "Are you ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," Clint said.

"Okay."

The tip of the wand was starting to glow and the heat from it was enough to make Phil sweat. He braced himself, and swept it towards the chain in one smooth movement.

The willow cut through then thick metal with almost no resistance.

Phil nearly fell over, his balance thrown off by the ease he'd cut through the chain with. There was a loud rattle as Clint ducked to the side, avoiding the wand that had almost taken his nose off.

"Careful with that!" Clint exclaimed.

"Sorry." Phil straightened up. "I didn't expect it to work that well."

"Now who's fishing for compliments?" Clint lowered his arms with a low groan that made Phil think incredibly inappropriate things. "Fuck, that feels good."

"Can you hurry it up and save the foreplay for later?" Natasha asked. "We're going to have company soon."

Clint cursed. "Okay, feels less good now. Ow. Pins and needles. Fucking ow."

Phil ignored his complaints, focusing on the chain leading from his collar to his ankles instead. "Hold still."

"Just try not to cut anything important," Clint instructed, freezing.

"Don't worry, your tail is safe," Phil said, absently.

He held the chain away from Clint's body and sliced through it, prepared this time for the way the metal parted immediately.

Clint snickered. "Kind of don't care if my tail is safe from you anymore."

"Your actual tail, not a metaphor."

"Same deal."

Phil lifted his eyebrows as something warm and distinctly mobile wound around his ankle, the tip caressing the bare skin of his calf. "Clint?"

"Yeah?"

"Put the tail away until I've finished? It's distracting, and I don't think you want to lose a foot."

"Hurry," Natasha instructed.

Clint shrugged. "Hurrying."

"Hurry more, flirt less. Or I'll kill you myself and turn your tail into a belt."

Phil gestured to the chain attaching Clint's ankle manacles to the wall. "Hold that tight and I'll try to cut it as close to your leg as I can."

Clint's wrists were still held together in front of him by a bar between the manacles, so he couldn't move easily. Somehow, the position he had to get in to pull the chain tight required a lot of movements that made Phil feel far too warm.

Or maybe the problem was that the willow wand was radiating more heat. There was a stink of singed silk in the air and Phil's hand was starting to hurt.

Phil didn't say anything. He concentrated on cutting the chain as close to Clint's ankle as he could, without actually slicing through Clint's leg. He wasn't sure whether demons could regenerate limbs, and it seemed like a bad time to find out.

Clint must have noticed the extra heat and the smell. He wordlessly rolled onto his back and offered up his hands and feet, trying to keep them as far apart as possible to give Phil space to work. The level of trust it demonstrated did something complicated and unexpected to Phil's insides. If they hadn't been in such a dire situation, Phil would have tried to work out what it meant, but this wasn't a good time for personal revelations.

It definitely wasn't a good time to be hit with a sudden urge to kiss Clint.

Phil pushed the thought away and concentrated on his task. Cutting the manacles apart would allow Clint to move, make it easier to escape, but it was risky. The heat that the wand was giving off was incredible now, and there was so much vulnerable flesh on display. If Phil got this wrong, he'd hurt Clint, possibly permanently.

"Do it," Clint said. "Can't hurt me worse than they're going to if we don't get out of here, can you?"

It made sense, in a twisted kind of way. Most things about Clint made sense, if Phil remembered to add 'demon' to the equation. He might not be one hundred percent demon, but he'd spent his whole life believing he was a demon, and that was how his thought processes ran.

"Try not to move," Phil said.

A trickle of sweat tickled as it slid down his hairline. He gritted his teeth and carefully inserted the wand between Clint's hands, trying not to let it touch soft flesh. The tip met the heavy metal bar joining the manacles and sliced through easily.

Too easily, and Phil cursed as the wand touched the heel of Clint's hand, eliciting a sharp yelp of pain.

Clint pulled his hands apart as soon as he could and cradled the injured hand against his chest. At least the hand was still attached. It could have been worse.

Phil wanted to call a halt there, it would have been sensible, but Clint's ankles were still bound together and he wanted Clint as mobile as possible. If they had to run, he wasn't going to leave Clint behind no matter what Clint had asked for.

Clint silently stretched out his legs, holding his feet as far apart as the manacles would allow. It wasn't far. The bar holding his ankles together was even shorter than the one between his hands.

Phil's heart was hammering in his chest and sweat was dripping down his jaw as he carefully, so very slowly, sliced through the bar. The wand flared hotter, searing through the silk, and Phil threw it away from him with a curse. There was a quiet clink as Clint pulled his feet apart and the remains of the chain dragged across the stone floor, still attached to his right ankle.

"See, no harm done," Clint said, waggling his toes. "Still got everything that matters."

"Your hand--" Phil began.

"Probably hurts less than yours."

Phil looked down, realising for the first time that his hand was hurting like nothing else had for a long time. The skin was red and blistered, and the pain seemed to get worse as soon as he looked at it.

"Oh," Phil said numbly. "I'm right-handed."

"I'm pretty sure there's a really bad jerking off joke there," Clint said, "but I can't think of it right now."

"Guys, we're out of time," Natasha said. "Time for our exit strategy."

"You have one?" Clint asked.

"Of course," Natasha said. "Phil?"

"I'm working on it," Phil said, trying to hunt through his pack with his uninjured left hand.

"What do you need?" Clint asked.

"The pouch of red sand," Phil said.

"I'm starting to hate that stuff."

"The feeling is mutual."

"How long can you hold them off?" Clint asked.

Phil didn't look up until the silence went on a little too long. He was watching Clint upend the contents of his backpack and sift through it, muttering under his breath. The pouch was half hidden under the sleeve of his sweater. Snatching it up, he risked a quick glance at Natasha to find out why she was uncharacteristically silent, and froze.

Natasha was slowly backing into the cell with her hands up. Two demons towered over her, the glowing tips of their staffs aimed directly at her head.

They were trapped.

***

A whole pack of demons escorted them out of the dungeon. There were even a couple of imps bringing up the rear. The creatures were tiny, barely reaching Natasha's waist, and Phil could clearly see why Clint might have been offended about being compared to one. The fierce smiles and the way they handled their weapons quickly persuaded Phil that imps weren't as easy to get past as their size seemed to indicate.

He was trying not to speculate about the similarity between the devices that the imps and several of the larger demons were carrying to human semi-automatic rifles. It wouldn't have surprised him if there had been some demonic 'help' on the designs, even though Phil was more than aware that humans could design tools to kill with perfectly well on their own.

The muzzles of the weapons glowed almost as brightly as the staffs that the largest demons were carrying. Phil was pretty sure that whatever they used as ammunition, it wasn't bullets.

Natasha was up with the big demons at the front, and she already seemed to be on good terms with them. She was laughing at one of their jokes, and she'd been allowed to lower her hands.

"Should I be worried?" Phil whispered, nodding towards her.

Clint snorted. "Nope. She didn't sell us out, if that's what you're worried about."

"Okay."

"She's a survivor," Clint continued softly. "She's got some major contacts and nobody's going to piss her off if they can help it. Not even the fucker in charge of this place."

"Can't she get us out?"

"Not a chance. Nobody's going to risk doing shit to her that she doesn't like, but that doesn't mean she gets to just walk out of here with us in tow."

"Damn."

"Yeah."

Clint had been allowed to walk beside Phil, but that was probably mostly because he looked wobbly on his feet. Phil would have to catch him if he fell: their guards didn't seem to want to risk letting Clint near them. That was interesting.

"Do you have a plan?" Clint asked after a brief silence.

"Can you transport us out?" Phil asked.

"Nope. This castle has some kind of jammer. Nobody can transport around."

"That could be a problem."

"Only if we can't find a way outside the walls."

Phil lifted an eyebrow, and Clint shrugged, not looking contrite at all. He seemed to be completely unconcerned about the fact that they were probably being marched to their very painful and public executions.

Then again, if the only other option in this place was torture, Phil could understand why Clint seemed to feel like death was an upgrade on his situation.

The staircase they climbed this time was wide and easy. Phil's legs were burning from the exertion before they made it halfway up, but he gritted his teeth and didn't complain. He suspected that it wouldn't do any good, and right now, the goal was to stay alive for as long as possible.

Escape was only possible if they all stayed alive.

They marched through wide corridors of black stone, polished to mirror smoothness, lit by bright torches that reflected and refracted from the shiny surfaces. Phil's headache was worse than ever by the time they reached a pair of tall double doors, guarded by two demons in white ceremonial armour.

The colour seemed out of place, given the location, but white signalling purity was a very human concept. Demons might not think about colour the same way.

The guards glared hard at their escort, but one stepped forward and pushed the doors open without a word. Maybe there was a rivalry between them? The demons around them were wearing red armour, the lacquer scuffed and scratched in places, so it was possible there was some kind of division at work. Was it something they could exploit?

Phil didn't have a chance to pursue the thought further; the huge demons at the front of the procession led the way inside, and he didn't need the threatening gestures from the little imps to understand he should follow. Natasha walked between the lead demons easily, looking relaxed and cheerful. He hoped she had some ideas, because he was completely out.

As he walked, the pouch of red sand was a reassuring weight in his jeans pocket. Nobody seemed to have noticed that he'd secreted it there, but Phil couldn't think of any way to get to it or what he'd do if he could.

Their footsteps echoed as they walked across what seemed to be an enormous throne room, lined on both sides with tall, arched windows. A dais at the far end held the only occupants: a man sitting on an ornate chair, with a collection of...creatures at his feet. The man didn't look particularly demonic. His skin was pale and his thick hair didn't reveal any horns.

The things at his feet were definitely demonic. Phil tried not to look at them. There were configurations of heads, limbs, and teeth that should never be seen. Never.

Out of the corner of his eye, Phil noticed that Clint was keeping his gaze high as well. Maybe even he had a limit to the things he could see without going mad or throwing up.

The man on the throne steepled his fingers and lifted an eyebrow. His gaze roved over them. Phil's skin felt foul in its wake.

"Well," the man said, smirking. "I see you've found some friends."

Clint lifted his chin. "This isn't their fight. Let them go, Duquesne."

A soft chuckle sent shivers down Phil's back. "I don't think so. They'll try to come back."

Natasha stepped forward, gesturing at Clint with an arrogance Phil hadn't seen before. "I was contracted, Your Grace. We have laws about deals. Do you really want my people to bring a suit against you because you executed me while I was...ah, executing a contract?"

Duquesne paled. "Uh, no. That wouldn't be in either of our interests."

"That's what I thought."

He gestured, and the two large demons flanking Natasha stepped aside, leaving her standing alone. She inclined her head gracefully.

"Unfortunately, I don't think I can release either of you on that technicality." Duquesne smiled at Phil and Clint, the tips of his incisors dimpling his lips. "One of you held her contract. And I've really, _really_ been looking forward to the day when you lost your protection, Clint. Talk about the treat of a century. I was going to hold a party while we flayed you."

Clint shrugged. "Guess you're going to be disappointed."

"Oh, no, don't worry about that. All the invitations have already gone out. We'll just have to bring the date forward."

"Fine," Clint said. "Flay me, do whatever you want. Just leave the human out of it. Send him home. He isn't part of this."

Duquesne's smile widened. "I don't think so. I had been thinking about sending him back, but now that you seem so concerned about him, it would be wrong to make him miss the party. The only question is: do I torture him before I flay you, or do I make him watch and then tear his arms off? Which will be the more piquant for my guests? So many choices. Maybe I could do both."

A cold numbness seemed to have fallen over Phil's mind. Logically, he knew that he should be terrified. He should be retching and shaking at the prospect of the torments Duquesne was outlining with so much relish, but he couldn't feel anything. His emotions seemed to have been walled off in a dark corner of his mind. He would probably break down later, if there was a later, but in that moment, he felt calm. Clear. Unmoved.

Clint threw him a look filled with fear and regret. Phil didn't feel anything.

"You really should have known not to listen to Barney," Duquesne. "That's always been your problem, hasn't it? Loyalty. A detestable trait in our kind. A symptom of your humanity."

Clint straightened defiantly. Even bruised and dressed in the ragged remains of his boxers, he looked magnificent in Phil's eyes. Strong and beautiful, bristling with contained power.

"If loyalty is a sign of humanity," Clint said, "then maybe having some in my blood isn't a bad thing."

"You're tainted. Defiled. Wrong."

"Kind of a weird perspective. The mortals would say you're the defiled one."

Duquesne leaned forward. "The mortals are pathetic creatures we should be crushing beneath our boots. They don't deserve the world they've been given."

"Yeah, but none of them are stupid enough to summon you, are they? Even they know you're bad news."

All of Duquesne's attention seemed to be on Clint, and Phil slowly allowed his hands to drop slightly. Just a little, down to rib height, but Duquesne didn't seem to notice. Clint's hands were clenching at his sides and he looked ready to fight, even though he was barefoot and almost naked. He'd fought a hell hound and won wearing less, after all. Phil was thankful that his emotions had been locked away somewhere else, because this would have been a really bad time to have a sudden attack of lust.

"They'll do it," Duquesne. "My people will turn the mortals. They'll invite me across and then we'll feast on their flesh. Our celebration will last for a millennia."

"Pretty sure that's not going to happen," Clint said.

"Really?"

"Really. Humans have an amazing self-preservation instinct. It's almost as good as ours."

Natasha was slowly inching closer to the throne. Closer to the _things_ at the base of it. Phil tried not to look at her and allowed his hands to drop lower, level with his hips. Cautiously, he slipped his uninjured one into his pocket and touched the soft leather pouch. Trying to keep the movements subtle and tiny, he began working the neck open.

"Humans are little better than dung," Duquesne said. "They're less than dung. A comparison to them is insulting. Worse than insulting, it's blasphemy."

Clint laughed. "You know you're not a god, right? There are no gods down here. Not even the big guy pretends to be one."

"You little--"

"Now!" Natasha shouted.

Phil didn't see what she did, but the creatures sitting around Duquesne's feet erupted into a chaotic confusion of snapping teeth and claws. Blood flew through the air, spattering across everything, even Duquesne's pale skin.

The guards abandoned their posts around Phil and Clint. A couple of them sprang to Duquesne's defence, but the rest dashed for the doors, dropping their weapons in their haste to escape. Horrific snarls and shrieks filled the air as the creatures swirled around the dais in a tangle of anatomically impossible limbs. One of them split from the rest, running after the guards with a speed that seemed impossible with its five ungainly legs. Phil didn't watch to see what it did.

He grabbed Clint's hand and ran after Natasha, who was heading straight for one of the tall windows. She threw something and it shattered, pieces flying everywhere. A shard hit Phil's arm, drawing a red streak of blood, even though logic said that it should have broken outward. Physics didn't seem to be working properly here.

He had a moment to wonder what Natasha's plan was, when she jumped through the window and vanished.

Phil caught himself on the edge of the window frame, peering out at the drop to the ground outside. It had to be at least two hundred feet down. He hadn't realised they'd climbed so far.

"What's wrong?" Clint asked.

"It's a long way down. Can you transport us?"

"I don't think so," Clint said. "I'm not sure if I'm strong enough to transport a ping pong ball right now."

"Shit."

"You can do it," Clint said. "Take us home. Doesn't take a casting circle to do that, right?"

"I don't know," Phil said.

Clint smiled. "I know. You can do it."

There was a depth of trust in Clint's eyes that might have taken Phil's breath away if he hadn't sealed all his feelings away. It gave him a sudden rush of confidence, though, and he nodded.

Anyway, if he failed, then they'd die when they hit the ground. That didn't seem so bad right now.

"Hold on," Phil said.

He stepped up on the window frame, Clint moving in synch with him. They both stepped off in unison, just as Clint wrapped an arm around Phil's waist.

Time seemed to slow as they fell. Phil pulled out the pouch and said the short, guttural spell he'd memorised while he walked with Natasha. He shook out the sand and it caught fire in a bright, blinding flash.

They fell into the fire, but it didn't burn them.

***

Phil's feet hit the floor with a bone-jarring thud. Clint's arms were still tight around him, the warmth of his skin almost burning against Phil's half-frozen flesh. His knees buckled and he grabbed for Clint, but the demon was falling, too. They landed in a tangled heap on the floor and lay there for a moment, panting hard.

Someone cleared their throat. Phil looked up, to find Nick Fury looming over him.

"Well, shit, Phil," Nick said. "What did you get yourself into?"


End file.
